


What a (little) death to die

by Petra



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam opens his eyes--because he is not a damn coward, but he doesn't need to see the thing that kills him coming twice in what probably amounts to one lifetime, and he did just accuse Gene Hunt the great and terrible of being gay--he's still not dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a (little) death to die

**Author's Note:**

> Rough sex for Kink Bingo. For [](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**thatyourefuse**](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/); beta-read/Britpicked by [](http://jamjar.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**jamjar**](http://jamjar.dreamwidth.org/).

  
Somewhere under Gene's terrible, crusty, bitter, mean exterior there is a warm, fuzzy heart full of love for all things rainbowed, fluffy, and puppy-shaped.

Sam believes this in his heart of hearts, which is why he can put up with all the crap.

The part where the terrible, crusty, bitter, mean exterior also happens to be one of his favorite things, and one of his turn-ons, also helps.

There's no crime in liking rough trade, but Sam's enough of a 21st century guy to know that some guys would judge the hell out of him for it. In the late 20th century, he decides one drunken evening that the best way to keep his taste for cruel bastards well fed and under wraps is to hit on his immensely closeted boss.

Sometimes life just loves him (and sometimes there's the test card girl).

Maybe he's had a few too many when he explains all this to Gene, sitting on Gene's godawfully hideous avocado naugahyde settee, which should be banned any second now for emitting dangerous fumes. Maybe--just maybe--he didn't mean to put it quite those words.

Funnily enough, it doesn't result in his instant and terrible death.

When he opens his eyes--because he is not a damn coward, but he doesn't need to see the thing that kills him coming twice in what probably amounts to one lifetime, and he did just accuse Gene Hunt the great and terrible of being gay--he's still not dead.

Or still--well, things haven't changed. He can still smell the settee, too, so that's no blessing.

"You think I'm a fairy?" Gene asks, and Sam takes his life-or-whatever-it-is in his hands again.

"Don't know, but I wish you were."

What do you know, when he opens his eyes again after another twenty seconds--well, more than twenty, he loses track of what comes after thirteen for longer than he should, but when he remembers and gets to twenty and opens his eyes--he continues, miraculously, to not be dead.

"Huh," Gene says. "Thing is, if I was a fairy, I'd have to kick your arse for figuring it out, wouldn't I?"

"Could be." Sam shrugs. "Except if I was, too. Or. I am."

Gene frowns. He gets a whole set of excellent furrows when he frowns--really accentuates that grumpy old bastard exterior (if it is an exterior)--and Sam has to bite his tongue so as not to laugh at him. "Was that you making one of those hypo-made up things, or was that you admitting a truth that I damned well did not need to know, seeing as how we are not friends, and never have been, and are never, ever going to be?"

Sam looks down at the way they're sitting on the settee. It's Gene's settee--left by the Missus when she went off to her mum's and never came back--so he's sprawled on it, taking up as much space relative to the overall area as he normally does in CID. That leaves about three percent of it for Sam, so while Gene's sprawling, Sam's leaning. Halfway on his lap, not so much by design as because otherwise he'd be on the floor. "If we're not friends--" and he doesn't say Guv, he doesn't, because they are bloody well friends and this stupid bastard is going to acknowledge it "--then why've you got your arm round my shoulders?"

"Hypo-made-up fairy story--fuck, strike that--theoretically speaking, 'cause I know you love that so much--'cause there's no damn room on this settee. Or because maybe I'm trying to get in your knickers."

"Are you?" Sam turns to look at him to figure out if he's taking the piss and leans too far over, and almost falls off the settee entirely.

He would've if Gene hadn't caught him round the waist and held on. Pulled him, maybe, a little closer than they normally got.

"Could be," Gene says, mildly for him, all of an inch away from Sam's mouth. Mildly for anybody. Mild as milk, as cream, as purring kitty-cats and no, no, no.

"Shit," Sam says, and Gene lets him go, and then he does fall off the settee, right onto the floor. "Look--ouch. Look, the thing is. The thing is--yes, fine, you want in my knickers," he rolls his eyes at the word, "let's do it, but not like this."

Gene regards him with a whiskey-soaked and oh God please no whiskey-softened gaze. "You don't like the floor?"

Sam sighs. "No, the floor's fine, it's the settee I can't stand--that thing reeks worse than your bloody Cortina--but no, what I meant is, is." He waggles one finger at Gene and falters.

After he's paused too long, Gene groans and bangs his head on the back of the settee. "Jesus, I should've known you'd want to talk this to death. You're worse than all the birds I've ever dated rolled into one, you are."

"That's the thing!" Sam says, and he'd jump to his feet in triumph but he can't find them right now. Feet don't matter, anyway, because Gene's found the point. Thank God for Gene Hunt's detective skills.

"What is?"

"The thing is," Sam starts again, more coherently this time, "I don't want to talk this to death. I don't want some lovey-dovey fake marriage thing from you, no stuffing me in an apron and no stupid pet names past what we've already got--if I wanted someone to take home to my mum I'd--" he tries to imagine taking Gene home to his mum (again) and loses his train of thought.

Gene crosses his arms. "So no flowers."

"No!" Sam holds up his hands to ward off imaginary bouquets.

"No chocolates."

"Chocolate's fine, but not in big stupid boxes with big floppy bows."

"No darling-sweetheart-petal-light-of-my-bloody-life."

Sam feels himself going green around the gills to match the settee at the mere suggestion and buries his face in his hands. "Do you know what a prat you sound saying that?"

"Yes." Gene grabs him by the collar and pulls him up so they're nose to nose. "What you want, Sammy-boy, is a quick slap-and-tickle, and no frills. Is that it?"

"Yes." Sam swallows and goes for broke, figuring that Gene's more likely to knock him across the room if he says something wrong than much of anything else, so it's a win-win scenario erection-wise. "More of the slap than the tickle, actually."

"Right." Gene kisses him hard, biting at his lip and shoving his tongue into Sam's mouth.

It's the most romantic thing anyone has done for him in years, and that's counting Maya making him his favorite meal and everything Annie ever did.

"Oh, fuck yes," Sam says, when Gene lets him up for breath. Momentarily.

After another two kisses, his mouth is raw with beardburn and sheer forcefulness. "I'm not shagging you on this damn settee," Sam protests while he can still talk.

"Wrong color for you, Dorothy?" Gene lets him go, and Sam whimpers and tries to find his knees, so he can follow them down and find his feet, so he can stand up, or he'll be able to soon.

"That, and it smells, and there's the problem of your bay window. And Missus Reinhardt next door--"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence. Apparently Gene's better at searching a room for his feet than Sam is, because he's up, and looming. Towering.

Sam's mouth waters and he reconsiders complaining about the settee and the neighbors and everything else in the world because--right--there--and then Gene grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him up, and he's too busy remembering how to balance before he falls over again to worry about missed opportunities.

If he can't talk Gene into letting Sam blow him, they'll both need their gay agenda membership cards revoked for good and all, and it'll be years till anyone even makes that joke, so he doesn't say it out loud. "Fuck," he says instead, and gets his arm around Gene before Gene decides that's a complaint and drops him again.

"Upstairs," Gene says, and gets a good, strong, macho handful of Sam's arse. "Funny, that, got to go upstairs to get downstairs inside."

That level of joke--too stupid to even count as juvenile--normally makes Sam roll his eyes, but in the first place he's drunk, in the second Gene's hand is warm and possessive and not even the tiniest bit gentle, and in the third place most of his bloodflow is aiming for downstairs. He giggles.

"What the fuck was that?" Gene asks, and gives him another squeeze before he lets go. "You have your conditions, princess, I've got mine--if I wanted a bit of skirt round the place, you damn well know I'd have 'em lining up for me."

"'course," Sam says easily, grinning at him. "With your charms, every girl's drooling for it." The oo in drooling goes on a little too long, but that's better than giggling again.

"So no damn tee-hee in my ear, and no bollocks about love, and no turning up in a dress no matter how pretty it is."

Sam snickers. That's also better than giggling. "No. No, no, no. You got it. Just regular old Sam, same as ever."

"Don't want you same as ever." Gene swats his arse, then pulls him closer. And really, on a good day Sam would be sober for this, and infinitely less likely to want to wrap his legs around Gene's waist and go for it right there. "I want you naked and begging for my cock the way you normally beg for goddamn evidence, like the only procedure you want to hear about till the end of your days involves you on your sodding knees and screaming your throat out until you can't even breathe 'cause you've got exactly what you damn well want."

That hits like the best beating Gene's ever given him, blow after blow going right to his cock, and Sam makes a horrible and probably girly sound before he manages to get his hand between them and squeeze--hard--to stop himself from coming right there. "Shut up. Please. Shut up."

"Was that too soppy for you?" Gene asks, and kisses him again before he can say anything.

They're back on the settee again, Sam's on his back on the settee again, and he can't breathe. Nobody could under several-too-many stone of Gene, and God help them if he decided to peel open their tight trousers and get his hand round their cock.

God help Sam, because he can't help himself right now, and the only thing he can manage between another kiss that'll leave him looking bruised tomorrow and a hand that could very well be the hand of God squeezing him just right is "Wanted--fuck--you to fuck--fuck me--"

"Don't you worry, I'll get mine," Gene says, and that's enough to make Sam come, pulling Gene down for another kiss that takes away all his breath and makes sure he doesn't wake the neighbors screaming.

"Fuck," Sam says again on a quarter of a breath. His feet are gone again--constriction of the nerves thanks to Gene on top of him, alcohol, and post-orgasmic haze--and when he can move or talk or anything, he's going to mention that.

Gene grins at him, more feral than sweet. "You keep saying that, but I haven't seen any proof."

"Let me up." Sam thumps his shoulder. "This settee isn't big enough for the two of us."

"The bed is," Gene says, and levers himself up with his clean hand, half-squashing Sam again thoughtlessly in the process.

Sam savors the moment long enough to get a good, deep breath before he drags himself to his shaky legs and follows Gene upstairs.


End file.
